I didn't write the next morning.
I couldn't.
Every time I opened my laptop, my reflection in the black screen looked like a stranger, eyes too tired, too frightened, too full of questions I didn't want answered.
But by evening, curiosity had turned into something heavier.
Guilt.
I told myself I only wanted to see if the mail was still there. Maybe it had vanished, maybe I'd dreamt it. That would've been easier to explain.
But it was there. Every word. Every sentence.
TELL MY STORY
The screen flickered, then went blank for a second before filling with new text.
This time, I didn't touch a single key.
"You've ignored me long enough, A.K. You owe me a story."
My chest tightened. "Who are you?" I whispered, even though I already knew.
The cursor blinked twice. Then words began to appear, slow and deliberate, like someone typing from somewhere far away.
"You know who I am."
I froze.
The next words came before I could move.
"The world thinks I killed her. You and I both know that's not true."
I couldn't breathe. My throat felt tight, my palms slick.
Because no one, absolutely no one, was supposed to know that part.
Not even Kane's family. Not the police.
Not anyone alive.
I slammed the laptop shut and backed away like it could bite me. My heart was racing so hard I thought I might pass out.
But then I heard it.
The sound that would never leave me again.
A single key pressing down by itself.
Click.
Click.
Click.
I turned, and my laptop lid was open again. I swear on everything, I didn't touch it.
The screen was white, the words already waiting for me.
"You can run, A.K. But the story has already begun."
And right there, my old typewriter — the one I hadn't used in years — gave a sharp ding.
Its ribbon moved.
On the fresh page, one line appeared in clean, black ink.
CHAPTER ONE: THE GHOSTWRITER